


They are so wide, his hands, like honey

by Keturagh, LadylikeFoxes



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Concept Solas - Freeform, Hand Smut, Implied Relationships, No Plot/Plotless, Other, POV Outsider, POV Solas, Poetry - Freeform, Stream of Consciousness, Stream of Consciousness Collaboration, The Artist at Work, Unintentional Collab
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 01:06:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9795473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keturagh/pseuds/Keturagh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadylikeFoxes/pseuds/LadylikeFoxes
Summary: "It was a moment of perfect egg-aroused creative resonance.It was a corner of the universe folding down and letting us touch it at the same time."-KeturaghNot practiced or prompted, just a conversation on Solas and artist handswhich turned into, what I personally feel, is some of the best writing I have ever produced.And it all stemmed naturally, from a friend that I am lucky and grateful to have gained.-L.F.





	

They are so wide, his hands, when he spreads them,  
his knuckles are knobby, but smooth  
  
The way the paint has caked outlines his fingerprints  
He wasn't even using that color today...  
How old is that?

  
A smooth vein in his forearm;   
he's got... what is that smudge   
Is that a yellow or is that gold?  
you swear it's like sparkling….  
what is this, arts and crafts?  
he is very messy  
  
  
his wrists have that notch

_That notch is everything  
__it is the air in my lungs  
_  
It is very pronounced—  
maybe because his palms are so wide,   
but his arms are so lean?

_Long, thin fingers  
_ _almost feminine,  
_ _but decidedly_ **_not_ **. 

the tips are stubbly.  
they are masculine fingertips  
on, yes, long, and elegant fingers.

_Not skeletal or arthritic,_ _  
_ _or too thick,_ _or chubby_

but there are callouses  
  
_The way fingers should be  
__index and thumb knuckles  
__holding brushes, pens, pencils—  
__charcoal smudges at the corner of his temple  
__where he wiped his face_ _  
__with the back of his hand  
__deepening the shadows that_ _  
__flit across when the tendons flex_  


He is very focused.  
He has work to do.

_  
Squinting just slightly,_ _  
_ _sitting too close to his work_

The way his thumb beats against the page.   
Little frustrated rhythms.   
He does not notice it.

_An elbow propping his head up,_ _  
_ _fist curled under his chin_

his elbow juts out just   
a little too awkwardly.

_Tapping the tip of a single foot_ _  
_ _in some half-remembered rhythm_ _  
_ _only he could identify  
_ _Humming breaths of a tune, absently_

  
He clenches his jaw,  
not even realizing how tight   
he's holding his teeth together,   
until the fine work is complete.  
He puts the back of his hand against his mouth.

**  
**_A quick flash of the crinkling_ _  
__at the corners of his eyes, a single exhale,_ _  
_ _something amusing to him….  
__Rolling his shoulders back—not a full stretch_

he tilts his torso a little,   
just right and left,   
his lower back pops  
he is frustrated when one side   
goes and the other doesn't.

_thumb pressed to his slightly parted lips  
_ _tapping at the lower one with a furrowed brow—  
_ _Licking his lips distractedly_ _._

 

he leans back in to add the detail.   
his other forearm draped to hold the work in place.  
his knee jiggles under the table

_lips settling, but not quite closed,_ _  
_ _the wet shine barely noticeable  
_ _Eyes close, rolling his head back on his neck  
_ _before falling back into his trance again_

  
his hand stretches as he tilts the work,   
turning it round to mirror the detailing on this side.   
spread firmly in place  
his fingers press

_  
He cracks his pinky knuckle  
_ _but not the rest....  
_ _How can he stop at just the one?_

  
Well he tries, for a while. He doesn't feel   
like he needs to crack the others.   
Habit.  
But then, not trying,  
just distractedly, he tests the others.

_  
The_ **_tiniest_ ** _whisper of a smile  
_ _just grazing the corner of his mouth,_ _  
_ _an almost upward-curl_

The ring finger on his right hand goes, the others don't.

 

**_"Tsk—"  
_ ** _And he moves to smudge a line he didn't like_

It makes it worse.

_Clicking his tongue against his teeth  
_ _irksome, but patient_

He touches his thumb to the middle of his head,   
presses for a moment

_Tracing the half-crescent scar on his brow, briefly_

then he brings the thumb down to his tongue

_Rolling it over the very edge of the nail._ _That split never quite smoothed,_ _  
_ _so his tongue finds it by habit_

Sucking—quick, unthinking  
—the tip of the thumb

_A sudden low chuckle,_ _  
_ _deep and teasing in the back of his throat  
_ _A brow quirked in amused query_

he breathes in on the end of his own laugh,   
the snort shaking his shoulders

_And his pencil slips  
_ _another long, marring scratch across the paper  
_ _but he just smirks wryly_

there's just a hint of a wrinkle between his brows.  
just a ghost of irritation behind his interest.

_Then a soft sigh..._ _  
_ _such a little thing in so much time...._ _  
_ _nothing to fluster over_

He has had such mishaps before.   
there is experience here, to guide him.   
he knows a trick, or two.   
he knows what to do.

_A small nod, as if to himself..._ _  
_ _patience, he's worked so hard master_

to achieve the desired effect.

_And what effect would that be, Hahren?_

A curve here…  
The particular drape of the cloth, here;  
Movement suggesting its sheerness

_Hints with playful shadows—  
Almost youthful, the way he plays with the shading_

  
He passes a knuckle over his bottom lip.   
Rubs over and back,  
Slow.  
  
Coming on an idea,   
the knuckle drags lightly up to his top lip,   
tap-taps there  
he nods to himself

_A sudden glance up at the sound of a raven shifting,_ _  
_ _Just the flash of sea-storm grey and ice blue,_ _  
_ _raised to the birds and a loose feather fluttering down,_ _  
_ _landing in the center of his work  
_ _before dropping his eyes again,_ _  
_ _a small smile at the blue-black plume_

a slow, even breath  
  
_Sudden, violent_ ** _sneeze  
_**_(he's allergic to the birds)_

  
A call of "Maker bless!"  
from up in the tower

_A soft hum of gratitude, loud enough to carry_

pinching a cloth in his finger and thumb,   
he raises it just to touch under his nose

_A small cold breeze, wind slipping through_ _  
_ _the loosely hung wooden door_

he doesn't need it,

_(gods don't get runny noses)_

 

but he is fussy about making certain

_Old habits and all....  
_ _He finds a lot of them, lately_

It makes him feel closer to them.

_Knee-jerk reactions—  
_ _unnecessary now in this foggy world_

He has caught himself mirroring, on occasion,  
the way one of them sits  
or crosses their legs  
around the campfire  
  
_Hand hovering near his face_

unintentionally.

_Until he realizes  
_ _folding them back in his lap….  
_ _Sketching the movement the fire gives their skin  
_ _even though they often sit still and silent,_ _  
_ _lost in their thoughts_

 

It is like this way. He had forgotten.   
Being around other people.   
Their impressions.   
Influences.   
On movement.

_before a comment stirs them,_ _  
_ _or a bottle is passed around_

The way they react to one another.   
The way their bodies mimic  
a gesture  
a shift of weight

_Child-like in their shamelessness,_ _unaware of their own dance_

 

He leans over the work

_Watching one touch another so casually,_ _  
_ _just fingertips under an elbow_

The transfer of touch

_Like their movements don't ripple out into the air_ _,  
__Oblivious, child-things….  
__When did he grow so old?_  
  
he does not notice he has picked up the pen.   
it fiddles in the grip of his pointer and middle fingers  
tapping  
balanced between his knuckles  
stained with paint

 

_Do they notice how nervous they make him?  
_ _They're so fragile and fleeting,  
_ _so he tries to keep his distance...._

He puts the paper between himself and their bodies  
and the way their movements beckon  
_  
Their body-heat seeps through_ _.  
__He can see the flutter of their pulses  
__at their throats, hear their hearts sputter  
__and slow, even out...  
__So alive...how could he forget how alive?_

 

The study: the sketching;   
what is meant to make them easy to see   
makes them real instead.

_Their every emotion flashing across their faces  
_ _—if only for a moment_

He is not like that.   
He is careful.   
Has grown careful.   
Has been made careful.

_He wonders if he even remembers how to be at ease.  
_ _They think him so indifferent, always sleeping—even then,_ _  
_ _he struggles to loosen his muscles, settle into sleep  
_ _How could they think otherwise?_

  
He looks at the work.   
Can he really salvage it, with the mark cut through?

_Does it matter?  
_ _It was merely a diversion._ _  
_ _Something to concentrate on..._

He had been certain  
he could correct the mistake, at first.  
But the marring is too deep.  
It would take time.  
And energy.

  
He pulls away from the project, the necessity of it.  
He is tired.

_He is always tired.  
  
_ And then, not from  
that bone-deep exhaustion,  
but just by force of habit,  
he yawns.

_  
One of them glances at him, surprised_ _,  
_ _as if they had forgotten he could move_ _._

They yawn as well

_And he...chuckles—despite himself  
_ _More mirroring_

The paper is not a shield against them,   
nor alchemy to render them inert and safe   
and solid.

**He is here with them.**

  
His hands close, his fingers  
stroking the insides of his palms, unthinking twitch.

_He feels a panic raise in his throat  
_ _suddenly wanting to gasp for air_

his tongue feels like a heavy weight   
falling back, choking down his throat.

 

_And then contact—  
_ _A hand between his shoulder-blades_

He tenses reflexively  
  
_barely-there pressure,_ _  
__and then the sound of a slow, deliberate inhale  
__like one would show a child_ _  
__how to calm themselves_

 

He grimaces, so that he will not cry.

_He mirrors, once again_

A ridiculous urge.

_Slow, steady inhale_

his chest, stomach rise  
and fall

_if he closes his eyes,_ _  
__he can hide the shaky sound  
_  
He shifts, just slightly away.  
  
_The hand withdraws,  
__an obvious flinch, wounded feelings…_

He centers his own panic,   
resolves and tucks it firmly, now, away.   
Turns back.

There will be a kernel of strain   
within him, until he can meditate.   
Enter the Fade   
and ease back into his most comfortable   
version of himself.

  
_He offers a curt thanks—_

A tension, while he hides it.   
He is always tense around them.   
He is always tired.

_A weak, half-attempted bow,  
_ _slight bend at the waist,  
_ _then laces his fingers behind him again—  
_ _straightening his shoulders,  
_ _breathing is easier…._

  
He adjusts, just a little.   
Lifts his shoulders up, back, and down.  
His nail on one finger chips   
at the paint dried on another

_His disguise is easier some days  
_ _but tonight it's heavier_

Why?

_A volcano can play at a mountain for millennia...  
__But the pressure always builds  
  
_ Natural shifts.

**  
** _And he cannot bear the constant,  
_ _ceaseless sensation of...homelessness  
_ _Like a refugee, alone in a foreign land.  
_ _Nothing to cling to….  
_ _No home or hearth, no comfort to calm him.  
_ _Just his duty,_ _  
_ _and sleep... slipping back over the veil_

It is there he feels the weight lift.   
Or... shift.  
It has always been easier there.  
**  
**_Though, the Fade is now reminiscent of a warm bath_ _  
__that, while not yet cold,_ _  
__is no longer the right temperature_ _.  
__Nevertheless, a warm bath in a foreign land....  
__And an old friend or two, perhaps,_ _  
__if they seek him out._  
  
He tries to populate the world inside his mind   
with old friends, spirits, but feels a yearning even so.   
**Then he thinks of them.**   
He has tried to settle into them,   
against his better judgment.  
After all,   
he has been, at times, intrigued.

_What were Cole's words, again?_ _  
_ _Like counting birds against the sun....  
_ _Not what he has come to anticipate_ _  
_ _from this muted reality—_

  
He collects the paper.  
The brushes. The ink.  
This will get ruined, left here.

_He could sob, if he let himself._ _  
_ _He mulls over the thought_ _  
_ _for only a moment_

Part of him finds relief in these small acts   
of erasing his presence from their lives.

_Not here, not now.  
_ _Protecting them, he thinks—_

He knows what is best.

_But, he knows...  
_ _he's protecting himself_

  
He balances the items in his hands,   
on his forearms  
_He almost lets the thought solidify,  
__almost lets himself think the truth_

Dispels it.  
_Focusing on the uneven binding of the paper_ _,  
__the creased and soft-worn edges_

  
What does he do when he hears them call him back?  
He had meant to slip away unnoticed.  
_The pens, pencils, fall to the ground as he turns  
__bouncing almost without a sound_ _  
__in the soft, loose earth_  
He spares them a brief, and vacant, look

_  
_ _A blanket  
_ _Offered by a nervous smile  
  
_ **_"It's colder tonight than usual"_ **

  
He shakes his head,   
his chin just bobbing to one side  
then  
he swallows.  
He does feel cold.  
  
_His hand is already moving to take it  
__He hadn't meant to—_

  
The smile bent,   
and is picking up the pens and pencils  
—hair covering that smile

_The heat from the nervous little thing still burning_ _  
_ _where they brushed knuckles_

**T** hey straighten and offer the fistful of implements….  
  
_The sensation burning like a hot coal, he hesitates;  
__they push his supplies into his hand, hurriedly—_

  
He recoils—

_Trying to rush off, head ducked_

He hopes not too visibly  
  
_They don't seem to notice,  
__won't raise their face_ _.  
__Hiding behind a curtain of hair…._

  
He feels ashamed now, too.   
Or maybe that is the heat of the contact.   
He is burning through his skin.   
He is so cold.

_Like a startled rabbit…._

He has the blanket

_It smells like wood smoke and Crystal Grace_ _  
__and horse hay and hard sunshine….  
_  
Suddenly, he wants to wrap himself in it and   
just lie alone,   
not sleeping;   
just looking at the stars and feeling the night.

_He holds it to his face a moment too long_

And then he feels it.   
The itch to fall away in dreams.   
The smell fades or he grows more used to it.  
His fingers trace the weft of weave,   
the ribs of hardy cloth.  
_  
The faint, weakly hopeful sensation eases_ _  
__over the ache that he had grown used to,_ _  
__nestled into the center of his chest_ _.  
__Like honey on an aching throat_ _._


End file.
